Burnside
by Ennya
Summary: A mentally-ill Claire Redfield broods over Steve's death, and suddenly finds him, alive, in her bedroom. One-Shot, MF Erotic Lemon


I do not own Resident Evil: Code Veronica

A/N: I didn't see any of the game after they escape in the plane, so I may have a bunch of things wrong in this fic. But bear with me.

Burnside

Claire's POV

I met him on the island. That was only six months before "the night". Who knew that we would ever see each other again? For after barely escaping the insane blonde man obsessed with his imaginary twin sister, Alfred Ashford, we found ourselves going different ways. While I escaped with my brother, he found another way out. To death, when he died in my arms, whispering to me just beneath his lips, eyes watering behind red bangs, that he loved me.

How many times I beat myself up over his death, I'm not sure. I wondered when he had been injected with the T-virus. Possibly before he came to my acquaintance. Or maybe in that time period when I just couldn't find him anywhere. And now whenever I close my eyes I'm always dreaming of being in that room, that horrible, terrible room, the torture chamber I stumbled upon, that I nearly screamed to death just being in the presence of. That foul stench of dried blood that had been there for the duration of years, the sounds of human screams that echoed off the walls and sounded as a single drop of blood hit the floor. Every night I found myself in that room, staring at the instruments used to torment lives, those that reeked of sadism and evil. I was standing at the foot of the wooden tables soaked of blood where many men lost their lives lying down, torn at the limbs and bleeding to death, and burnt alive at furnaces by their toes. And I was unarmed; I was trying to scream but couldn't find my voice. I was trying to cry but couldn't mind the emotion. I wanted to get out but my legs made no such movement. When I heard the familiar clank of chains behind me, and a weak voice calling my name, it was then that I cried. It was then I turned, and it was what I saw that made me scream.

My beloved red-haired angel. His wrists above his head, the clanking of the chains rang in my ears, making more tears come. Blood dribbled pitifully down his forearms, and from his neck. My breath was ice cold against the frozen lips that whispered his name, and my scream was full of blood, the blood that poured from his neck, down the porcelain untouched chest. And he died. No, he was dead. He was dead. And my hands were in the locks of his hair, or was it his hair? For his blood and hair were as of now the same colour. And again I screamed. And again I cried. And again he was dead in my arms.

I thought I too was going mad. Maybe that is what that island did to you. Maybe there was no T-virus, you just went mad. And there were no zombies, just an empty island. Which made you go mad. And Alfred Ashford, he was insane too. Had I followed his same path? And had all my sensibility and peace of mind gone with Steve when he died in my arms? Even now with it all behind me, where I never saw another neither a bloodied body nor never held another weapon. Where I lived in a large city and had a profitable job and apartment. I was living my life again. And still the things, the horror, plagued my thoughts, in every moment I lived, everything insufferable I had witnessed on that cursed island. I curse Umbrella Corp. I curse Alfred Ashford, and I curse myself, and the sanity that left me, and whatever God in Heaven took Steve away from me when he was in my arms.

And yet one day I was neither sure if I truly was insane, or if my angel baby wasn't dead after all. For it was late, and I was tired, and when I opened the knob to my bedroom door, I seemed to go blind. Blind, seeing nothing but a deep blood red before me, and I wanted to scream, for I thought it were my reoccurring dreams of the island come all over again to haunt my very being. Only later did I come to see that it was something different, that it was not just red, but black as well, and it was a texture, not just a colour. I fell upon it on my knees, staring at this unimaginable thing. I thought tears escaped me. It was soft against my fingers, and against my cheeks as I buried my face inside it, longing for its softness, wanting to become it, and all too fast I realized what it was. Red velvet, nothing but. But waves and waves of the fabric wove down to gather at my feet, draped delicately over my bed, gathered at a hellacious headboard that I neither loved nor hated, but stared at with awed curiosity. In the clawed hand of the headboard master descended two black chains. My heart seemed to freeze, but all in all I realized just what was happening. And whom it was sitting upon my bed, his top missing, his legs parted, his wrists captured by metal bangles, his neck imprisoned by a large shackle, and the little smile upon his lips. The same smile he died with.

But he was not dead. He was right there, right there in front of me, upon my bed, sitting so suggestively, careful not to move his hands, as though the clanking of the chains hurt his ears, as they did mine. He was not dead. He was not dead. He was alive and well. And he was here with me, sitting on my bed. Like he was waiting for me, a mere pleasure pet made to wait for his master, and held in place for being so naughty. I almost had half a heart to want to see him scared, but I could not. All I cared was the fact that he was here. He was here, and he was not dead.

I was on the bed before I could think. My knees sunk into the velvet but my eyes never for a moment left him. My hands were cold and clammy and I struggled to touch him. He was so close to me. His eyes bore into mine as he stared, neither smiling nor frowning, watching me with what seemed to be complete infatuation. He wouldn't speak, and I wondered why, but my mind no longer cared for such silly things. I was touching his leg, and his hands fell. I felt the cold metal against my skin and jerked away, and part of me wanted to hang him up by those chains so he could not interfere for what I had planned for him. I leaned forward; I could feel my ice breath on my lips, as I pressed them to his flesh, to his breast, brushing delicately. And I licked him eagerly, demanding his taste, never getting enough of his candy flesh. The throaty sounds he made in his throat made me move my hands, so now they covered his flesh in eager caresses, as my lips traveled the curves of his slender chest, to his collarbones and then his neck. I bit and nibbled as much I dared, part of me wanted to hurt him, like he hurt me, by dying. I knew he never meant to die, but I was overcome by the rage that anyone thought to take him from me.

His hands were upon me, I felt the cool metal press against my body as his arms enveloped mine into his embrace, fingers slipping beneath my shirt gingerly, lifting it up over my cream skin, fingers touching tenderly, but my lips touched his before my top was gone. I stared into his eyes, the eyes that showed me love that I had never seen before, and I stared and acknowledged them as my fingers fell to the hem of the leather pants he wore. I began to ground my teeth into his skin and pulled the defying leather from his hips, running the pads of my fingers down over his smooth, creamy buttocks, closing my eyes tight at the feeling of him, at the feeling of his fingers hurriedly removing any article of my clothing that remained. When we were both together, flesh and life, I held his face in my hands and stared at his eyes. I didn't not stare down at the size of him, for my mind knew there was no need. For I was in love with him, not what he had to offer.

We kissed sweetly, and passionately, and naked together we enveloped arms, his hands caressing my long back, my tongue exploring his mouth, his arousal pressing against me. I broke from him, my breath was warm now, and I wove the chain of his neckband between my white fingers. He watched, like I meant to tease him, and I clasped the chain and pulled. He was at my complete mercy, his head tilting back slightly as I pulled on him from his neck, down onto me, so we lay flat against each other on crushed velvet, that great dense with the condensation of our bodies. He was against me, his white arms cradling me, and suddenly he was inside me, fully, and I was closing my eyes, and my lips were parted, and I felt his red bangs tickling my chin and he kissed my neck and cheeks. Every movement he made, every clank of his chains, every arch of his back, every scream from my lips, and my mind was once again sane, and he truly wasn't dead, but above me, pushing into me his love, everything he meant in the words he spoke to me before he was dead. His hands touched my face and his kisses were now desperate. The sounds he made in his throat gave me more power over him, every tug on the chain to his neck I demanded more of his pleasure, more of his love, and he complied, with full strength, groaning loudly, clenching his eyes closed

His movements shook my body, shook my world, and I squeezed to him tightly like I was afraid he would let me go. But I felt the release in his actions, through the sounds in his throat, and how his pace increased, and I bit down on my lip and screamed almost as loud as my breath would allow, quiet enough to hear him voice his realize with a fiery passion, and I felt a hotness fill my insides. He was breathing hotly against my skin, wet with sweat, and without strength he fell down upon me, his face against my shoulder, as he relaxed within me. I released the chain on his neckband, and wrapped my arms around him, curling fire hair in my fingers, listening to his still, sleeping movements. And I knew there were tears in my eyes. I knew there were tears because I knew this wasn't real. None of it. The velvet wasn't real. The chains weren't real. Steve was dead, and this entire experience...never happened.

Hours later when I woke and realized I was in my clothes, on my made bed, sleeping sideways, I knew I would much rather be insane, than to live without him.

....So....Please R&R!


End file.
